


Bearing An Hourglass

by Claire



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Past Angel/Wesley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-18
Updated: 2004-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-23 05:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: In which Connor wants Wesley because Angel had him





	Bearing An Hourglass

Wesley tells himself that it's the sound of fighting that leads him towards the alley; the sound of metal slashing against flesh in the most inhuman way that makes him draw closer. It's certainly not that he followed the boy here, recognised the figure as it slipped out of the abandoned building and took to the streets. Wasn't waiting for the boy to emerge, didn't follow him home that night, hasn't made sure he's the only one of the group he's gathered that patrols the area. Certainly hasn't been in this exact situation every night since Lilah first pointed to a young man beside Angel and Wesley found a spectre on the end of his gaze.

He sticks to the shadows as he enters the alley, watching the scene before him. At first glance the smaller figure is outmatched, Bra'teth demon towering above him and swinging madly. And then the boy moves.

It's not like at the bar, when Connor was fighting beside his father. Here he's wilder, less contained, but just as deadly as the blade slides into the demon's neck and seven foot of Bra'teth falls to the ground, a feast for the carrion eaters.

Connor wipes the blade against his leg, ichor blending into the stains already peppering his trousers, as he stands there all dirty and ragged, blood sliding down his cheek in an obscene caress.

Wesley watches for long seconds before he moves back out the alley, swearing never to do this again, and knowing he will be back tomorrow. But for now, he's seen what he needs to see, and the rest of the night is for patrol, and not wondering what might have been.

Only this time, he's not the only one who leaves the alley. He knows he's being followed as soon as he steps back onto the street, feels it in the night that is too calm and the wind that is too soft. And he feels it in the footfalls behind him that stutter in just the wrong places. Wesley will admit that the boy is good, but LA isn't his territory, and the tricks that work in a hell dimension have no place in the back alleys that are home more to junkies and drunks than to demons.

Ignoring the area he was going to patrol, Wesley moves through the streets back towards his apartment, hunted by the shadow of the child he stole.

He leaves the door to the apartment block unlocked when he arrives back, the wards he placed on there more than sufficient to keep out 

/Angel/

anything that isn't wanted.

He pays no attention to the books scattered around the flat, draping his leather jacket over the back of the chair and grabbing the scotch on the way to the couch. Ignoring the still dirty glass sitting on the table, Wesley raises the bottle to his lips and drinks, smoothly reassuring burn filling him as he swallows. And all he wants to do is put his head back and sleep.

*

Wesley knows Connor is there, even before he opens his eyes. Can sense his presence in the air, heavy and anticipatory.

"I know you're awake."

Of course he does. Knows it just like his father did.

"You've been watching me."

It's with those words that Wesley opens his eyes and looks at the boy standing in front of him, a mix of Angel and Darla and a stranger Wesley is afraid to know wrapped up in a body of fear and hate.

"Why?" The question without anger, curiosity in Connor's eyes as they scan the flat.

Wesley doesn't answer. He doesn't know himself what kept drawing him back to Connor, so how could he possibly explain it to someone else.

Connor isn't fazed by the silence. "I saw you at that place. Watching me."

Wesley nods. He already knows that Lilah took him there for a reason, watched as well as watching.

"Watching him." It's only now that the venom in Connor's voice begins to show. And the words automatically spring to Wes's lips, the denial that that night had anything to do with Angel, but he swallows them. The lies already haunt him in the silence, he has no wish to give them more voice.

Connor studies him for long moments before he moves, closing the distance between them in easy steps, face close to Wesley's neck. "I can smell him on you."

Wesley has little doubt of that. Because even hatred can't burn out a scent ingrained into him over time. Because, no matter how much Angel may want to deny it, the vampire is a part of him, branded into his soul over the course of a thousand nights.

"I asked him about you, about the picture he keeps that he thinks no one knows about. He said you were no one." 

And that hurts more than Wes wants to admit. "Your father-"

"He's not my father." The denial is quick, but the fingers that reach out to brush across his throat show the lie in the words. Fingertips stroking over the scar on his neck with too much intent for Connor to have been born of anyone but vampires. "You looked different. You didn't have this."

He wants to stop Connor's fingers, want to capture them in his own, but he can't. And Connor's fingers keep moving.

"I can smell him when he thinks of you."

Wesley knows the words should make sense, but all he can feel is the caress at his throat.

"He shuts himself in his room. And I can hear him, and *smell* him."

The fingers move, opening his shirt and pushing it open.

"Don't."

But Connor doesn't stop, and Wesley doesn't make him.

"I want to."

Fingers trace over his stomach, writing words Wesley knows aren't English.

"He had you, and now he doesn't want you, and you're mine."

Wesley isn't sure when Connor opened his trousers, but his hand is wrapped around the boy's hard cock.

"You're mine."

Connor's fingers cover his, moving them over the hard flesh.

"Mine."

Word growled out and come splatters on Wes's stomach, heavy and pungent as his hand falls away from Connor's cock.

And Connor is gone before his come is even dry. Gone while Wes is sticky and wet, son branding him in every way his father did before. Gone, and Wes isn't even hard.

*

"You're late." The words assault him before he is even through the door.

"Yes, well running into a pair of Kresna will do that to you." Words more snapped that he meant them. Or maybe just the way he wanted them. Because it's late and it's cold and he's not about to answer to anyone. Especially not to a boy who thinks nothing of breaking into his flat and then complains that he's been waiting too long. And then Connor looks at him, eyes hard and vulnerable at the same time, and Wesley can't be in the same room.

"I'm going to take a shower." Doesn't wait for an answer as he moves through to the bedroom, stripping his clothes off and dropping them, shirt gingerly moved away from the slashes in his side that wouldn't have been there if only his mind had been on the fight and not on the feel of fingers brushing against his throat. Pulling his mind away from thoughts of the boy waiting in the other room, Wesley heads into the bathroom, steam quickly filling the small room as the shower is turned on.

He showers quickly, near scalding water cleansing his body. Torrents of heat masking the painful groan that slips from him as he rinses the wound, grime and blood washing down the drain in a swirling miasma of red.

Flicking the water off, he steps out of the shower. A hand wipes away the steam on the mirror as he stares at his

/failure/

reflection, eyes drawn, as always, to the vivid red mark across his neck. When he'd first been released from the hospital, he'd spent hours looking into the mirror, staring at the scar and wondering what he could have done differently. Spent hours wondering if at least one of his friends would ring, ask how he was, if he was even still alive. But the silence only served to reinforce that life has no room for if only, and there is never a happy ever after waiting around the corner.

Finally the goosebumps raising on his skin and the cold drops winding their way down his back remind him that the heating is broken again, and standing wet and naked in the bathroom is the last place he wants to be.

Opening the door, he steps back into the bedroom and finds himself staring at Connor. The boy is sitting on the bed, Wesley's ruined shirt in his hands as he fingers the slashes in the material.

"You didn't say you were hurt."

"You didn't ask." The childish response comes all too easily, and Wesley reminds himself that he is the adult here.

But Connor's not concerned about Wes's words, is too busy staring at the claw marks decorating Wesley's flesh as he makes his way across the room, dropping to his knees in front of him. Fingers reach out, pressing lightly, and Wes can't contain the hiss of pain, hand resting on Connor to steady himself.

Looking up, Connor meets Wesley's eyes as he leans forward, tongue darting out to lap at one of the wounds. And Wes can't help but hiss again, this time a mixture of pain and pleasure as his cock starts to swell. Fingers push at the broken skin, and Wesley can feel the wound reopen slightly, giving up his blood to the child suckling at him. His hand tightens on Connor's shoulder, knuckles white as his cock is encased in a warm grip. Connor's fingers move lazily over his cock as he teases more blood from Wes's body. And he doesn't know if it's the fist around his cock, or the lips pulling the blood from him

/Angel/

but Wes is coming, screaming. And then he's falling, sound and light meeting in his mind in a dizzying rush.

He thinks Connor drags him to the bed, but he can't be sure. Knows he's not making it there alone, and Connor seems the obvious choice. He looks up, eyes barely focusing on the figure looking down at him.

"Connor." The name slips from his lips as he reaches out, brushing his fingers across the boy's lips, staining them with his own blood.

"My name is Stephen." Retort instant and firm, even as his tongue snakes out, cleaning the redness from around his mouth.

But Stephen is Holtz's child, and that boy isn't here. This is Angel's son, however much Connor may want to deny it. He can run and he can rail against it, but he'll never escape it.

"Your father loves you, you know."

"He's a monster." But the words don't have the same heat as before, even if the venom is still there, waiting.

"Maybe so, but he still loves you." Loves him enough to move heaven and earth trying to find him. Loved him then, loves him now. Will love him when everything else is dust, and the only remembrance of Wesley will be ashes floating in the wind.

"I don't want to talk about him."

"He

/I/

only did what he thought was best."

"If you think he's so perfect then why did you save me from him?" The heat is back now, demand tinted with anger and hate and fear.

And Wesley laughs, edged with pain and what he thinks may be hysteria. "I'm not your saviour." Not then, and not now. Although maybe a crown of thorns would be easier to bear than every breath tasting like white starched betrayal.

"I don't need saving." Anger in full bloom as Connor pushes himself off the bed and stalks out.

"Then you're the only one who doesn't," Wesley calls after him, but Connor is gone, door slamming behind him like nothing more than a petulant teenager, leaving Wesley alone once more.

And the gulf between Angel and his son grows ever smaller.


End file.
